Con El "Corn Chips" No Se Juega

Got closely shorn over the weekend (about time, really-- we were talking '65 Ringo), and the Ukrainian barber proposed a shave as well. Now there was an idea. Certain of my male acquaintances who share with me a love of affectation swear by the straight razor. And I'd never tried it. So Mr. Barber Man gave me the whole hot-towel & lather treatment, which I'll admit was rather nice. Hey, sometimes you need to pamper yourself. You deserve it.

But the asshole-clenching part was yet to come. A giant fucking razor, probably not sterilized since it was last used to sever the digits of wayward Yakuza, was produced. And he cut the crap out of my face. I hid my lips and prayed. After pinching my nose and finishing my upper lip, he produced a spray bottle. It was, of course, alcohol, and I regret to report that my girlish screams shook the rafters. But my bloodied face was indeed baby-smooth.